


my savage, solitary soul

by sirfeit



Series: go home, or make a home [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 13:45:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7054216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murphy has nightmares. Bellamy holds his hand and then they talk about poetry.</p><p>written for the <a href="http://murphamy-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/963.html?thread=1987#cmt1987">Murphamy kinkmeme</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	my savage, solitary soul

**Author's Note:**

> set during ch2 of "pain, penance, birthright", but you really don't need to have read that to understand this. you should anyway though. it's a great use of your time.
> 
> it also sets the stage that Bellamy and Murphy share a bunk bed and Murphy has the top bunk, which is useful information

He’s good at not dreaming; he only sleeps when he’s exhausted, falling into unconsciousness. But he’s gotten lazy, at the dropship; he sleeps alone, so when he wakes up gasping and half-screaming, there’s nobody else to worry about. It’s easy to slip from his bunk to outside: the cool summer air, the stars outside. Octavia and Lincoln never mind when he brings a bedroll out to the fireside with them; and when they do, he knows how to make himself scarce.

Sleeping with Bellamy again -- That’s harder.

His dreams are like this:

He’s in the middle of talking to Miller about something, about anything at all, and then Miller says “I think we should float him,” and everyone’s eyes are on him, and they’re turning on him for no reason, and he’s fucked up again, in some unknowable tiny way --

Or this: He’s in Polis, and he’s gotten lost again, and he gets down to below the tower, and it’s all happening again. Grounders, when they were still faceless and impossible, stringing his arms up behind him, pulling out his fingernails, pain/questions/pain/pain.

Or this: _I want you to feel what I felt:_ Bellamy trying to talk him down, Bellamy kicking the crate from underneath him, images/pain/betrayal, remembering that he fucked up, again and again and again.

Or this: His dad, begging for his life in the airlock chamber, his mother’s hand painful around his wrist, nails sharp, words sharp ---

That’s enough.

So when he wakes to Bellamy at his side, breathing around an imaginary obstruction in his lungs, he assumes. “You gonna cuff me?” he asks, the darkness thick around him.

“Do you remember where you are?” asks Bellamy.

“Kind of,” says Murphy, rubbing his eyes, sitting up. “I’m fine, you don’t need to hover.”

“You don’t sound fine,” says Bellamy. Murphy can’t see him in the dark, but he can hear the concern. He didn’t ask for this.

“How you must have suffered, getting accustomed to me / My savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running,” he tells Bellamy, words blurring at the edges as he remembers another voice that spoke them.

“Wasn’t so hard,” says Bellamy, and he’s clambering up the bunk now, so Murphy moves farther back to accomodate him. He’s squished between the wall and Bellamy, and that’s -- that’s not good. Whoa, there.

He needs to calm down. He needs to slow his breathing. One, two, three. “Hey,” Bellamy is saying, and then altogether: “heyheyhey. You wanna get outside, get some fresh air?”

“Yeah,” says Murphy. Bellamy gets down, waits for Murphy to clamber out of bed and stand beside him. There are still embers at the firepit, so Bellamy takes his hand and they walk over, sit down at one of the logs.

His breathing is better now. The images aren’t going to go away, but at least he’s awake now and can tell they’re only memories.

“Where’s that from?” asks Bellamy into the silence. He doesn’t ask about the nightmares. Good.

“What?”

“’My savage, solitary soul,’” Bellamy clarifies.

“Oh,” he says. “I don’t know. Mbege liked it. So did I.”

“Me too,” says Bellamy.

**Author's Note:**

> quote is from "Every Day You Play" by Pablo Neruda.
> 
> god, I love Pablo Neruda so much.
> 
> let me know if you liked this! i accept comments, kudos, and excerpts from your favorite poems. or talk to me on [tumblr!](icetastrophe.tumblr.com)


End file.
